My parents never like Peter, not from the first moment they meet him and certainly not later on, and I am sure Peter’s parents think that he can do better than me. Honestly though, our parents are not crazy about either of us. But when we tell everyone that we want to get married, they resign themselves, it’s reconciliation time.
We get married in August 1963, a few days after I turn 19, in a very small ceremony at Peter’s home on Long Island, in front of the manorial fireplace. A rabbi officiates. Eugene comes, looking more debonair than ever, and a few of our friends. The big event, a reception, happens a week later at my parent’s country club and every relative on both sides is in attendance. I wear a brocade dress with burgundy velvet jacket and sash, there are toasts and we all drink champagne, too much maybe, and laugh and dance as we collect envelopes from our well-wishers, just as we hoped when we plotted our strategy.
But after all our self-congratulatory crowing the joke is on me. Our plan for conning money out of relatives works so well, we acquire so many dollars and a car full of presents, dishes and silver and suchlike, that it isn’t very long before I start to feel reformed. I find that I want to go straight and cut out my youthful nonsense and finish college and I want Peter to straighten out too, now that I am married and a person of substance.